Synchronized steps walked cautiously,
Wandered in the conductor's lair.
Where once was echoing laughter,
Now sits a soft-pedal chair.
Roaring and thunderous barrage,
Wry language that he called his own.
Brings a foundational pulse,
A groove he’s always shown.
Collectively, experienced-
The roaring of his defeat.
A community of healing-
Our drum circle- yields to the beat.
“Stop managing
and start racing”
Fangio said to himself
Victory lies
in the seat
of your pants
The best laid plans
the strategists
map out
Go silent
when dancing
the dance
A driver knows best
when the margins
are small
In hundredths
the outcome
depends
One choice dearly made
defying
the grave
Keeps a winner
in laurels
— again”
(Memories Of Juan Manuel: July, 2026)
I used to have a stro,
(a stro?)
I called it ‘my stro’
(Hmm …)
By itself it felt so dull
(I’m sure)
Then one day during the lull
(Yes?)
I added a simple ditty
(La, La, La …)
Accompanied by my kitty
(Meow …)
People liked it so well
(Kudos! Bravo!)
Gave me a nickname that’s swell
(What?)
They called me ‘maestro’
(Ahh …)
That’s all I know!
(Finally!)
The maestro spends twenty-three hours preparing for a one-hour performance
~ The novice prepares for an hour and spends twenty-three trying to play
Alright still gobsmacked how we were
Attacked..hacked..hijacked...whacked
Ransacked cracked shellacked poleaxed
By his relaxed Rat packed knack maxed
So here's a witty ditty ode to Travis
No ifs or buts can't tut tut... annul it or cull it
Straight out of the hut a classy brassy strut
Gung ho have a go heave ho maestro Mullet
Slaying & flaying.. no rut just a glorious glut
Left a stark dark smut.. every bowler's a mutt
Like some flirty dirty sl*t playing with the nut
Hard not to swoon at the boon of the loon
Croon at Travis's off his Head buffoon tune
Stubby not chubby tad tubby like David Boon
Us staunch fans of the promising paunch gasping
Can't snub or sub.. like a lad down the pub or club
Another out of whack attack does launch rasping
Rogue's Bogan brogue.. flashes his blade like Shogun
Wizard of Oz as loved as X men's Logan or Paul Hogan
Dashes and lashes.."Taches win Ashes" the Travis slogan
E clipse of the sun mesmerizes us
N early blinding awestruck onlookers
I dle gossip intermingled with tall tales
G argoyles whisper them in gardens
M aestro orchestrating seasons’ dance
A nd above reigns a sky that rules our world
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Please play a song for me Jan, in flashback
A song that brings lovely memories back
I well remember days from long ago
How we adored our musical maestro.
We'd stand round the piano as you played
Mesmerised by the sounds your fingers made
And here you are many decades gone by
Tickling the ivories, and still we sigh.
everyone watched her walk toward the piano
wondering if she was the maestro
surely not; she was ethereal and lovely,
a goddess, an angel, a heavenly vision
as the notes wafted around the room we knew
she was the maestro, and had been heaven sent
Silent strings, once vibrant song,
Melodies hushed, where echoes belong.
A master's touch, forever stilled,
Rajeev Taranath's legacy is forever chilled.
Dancing fingers, now lie at rest,
Ragas unplayed, a silent test.
The wisdom passed, a lineage strong,
Yet music's heart now grieves the song.
Traditions held, a fading light,
The past is preserved, yet shrouded in night.
Improvisation's flame, a flickering spark,
Leaving a void, a lonely mark.
No more the sound, painting stories untold,
Emotions were silenced, and a heart turned cold.
The human canvas, draped in gray,
Taranath's artistry is forever at bay.
Challenges faced, a victor's crown,
His passion's fire, forever unbound.
Souls untransformed, a melody unheard,
The sarod's silence, a weighty word.
No loving caress on the waiting string,
A maestro's life, a broken wing.
The past honoured, a future unclear,
Taranath's memory was a precious tear.
Though death may claim the maestro's hand,
His music lives on, in every land.
A final note, a whispered sigh,
Rajeev Taranath, forever nigh.
Headphones cup his ears
Like a sanctuary, a secret cave
Here he can hide , he is safe
Crouching behind the sofa
He hears raised voices
Muffled shouts, words become clubs
His mother is crying again
Sobbing as his father rants
He fumbles for the Jack
Connects the black, curly wire
Like an umbilical cord
Feeding his soul
He hears the needle touch
A few scratchy seconds
Then it begins. He is happily lost.
His emotions surge and swell.
His eyes shut as “Nimrod” builds
His school pencil now a baton
Caressing ,crafting, conducting
Clothing music with movement.
Now, prince of the podium,
Blown like a seed upon the breeze
As the music ebbs and flows
He is free. He has escaped
Composed, he walks towards the podium.
At first to applause, until a hush forms.
His heart beats like a water pump,
sweat drips - eyes fixed at his ensemble.
Audience anticipates,
as he stands at the nexus of musical creations.
With a brief glance - nods and closes his eyes,
baton in hand and a flick of wrist,
an oboe penetrates the silence,
violins trill and bass begin to roar.
His empathy connects with each note,
as his wand moves to the tempo,
conjuring symphonic magic,
softly then dramatically,
as emotions ebb and flow,
like waves weaving solo tones.
Spectators lost in imagination.
Gradually the melody flows faster,
as trumpets and trombones blow.
He feels a sharp pain in his chest,
as his pores drip like little rivers on his lips,
but he still guides the harmonic mood
with precision and clarity.
As the horns blare and percussions echo,
he loses grip of his baton - falls onto his knees,
clutching his breast - the music stops,
pianist plays her last key - audience gasp
he falls to the ground - curtains close.
Ella Fitzgerald (1917 – 1996)
In the midst of stale fog – Is it day or night?
The dimmed dishevelled lights don’t give a bass clef
Whilst notes made syncopated love at the bar
A tsunami of discord,
blew out the flame of a good old fashioned
And lipstick-stained stubbed ends forgot bruised anguish
A minor digress
Untainted melodies,
swung from a silhouette commissioned from a Nova
Calling humanity to bath in the melody of birdsong
Quenching dried remnants of bourbon with a perfect pitch
Of rare cut diamond chords and rip
Each instrument paused before the bar
As the voice tootled a trumpet sound
The lady knew how to blow that horn
Yet, no brass brushed against her lips
Then, silence waited in awe for the coveted scat
From the sui generis range of a regal gemstone
Where the constellations hold the original cut
With lulled echoes flowing to hit ‘rewind’
The Maestro comes to play
With numerous things to say
Our dear classic friend the baton.
The guy who seldom keeps up drawn.
The Maestro comes to lead
When all of us simply read
My old friend the saxophone
Does nothing but whine and moan.
I do not blame such a poor soul.
We are always in control.
If only we get to stand out
In a crowd where they’ve no doubt
The Maestro comes out to choose
A fabled folk with nothing to lose
Contacts, contacts, his contacts
That’s what it’s all about. Facts
No wonder why the second rate
Such standards are not up to date.
Quote: Bring forth the music dear lover of soul, she's waiting for a drop
A Conducter's baton fills the air with caresses of passion and zest
as a black patent leather shoe taps gently on a varathane wood plank
it sends a sensory cortex vibration to a deaf infant child, pure elation.
With a suave wave of his delicate hand the conductor brings the music
to a regal Orchestra who is finely attuned to a child's ears like fine sand.
Waltzelettos to the heart, the child doesn't hear not does she cry
when a salt and pepper haired man raises his tuxedo sleeves in the air,
the heart pumps blood and resurrects her once more.
Staccato notes each detached and separated from the other,
the newborn listens, lost in a paradise of movement and sound.
Infinite notes from a seasoned Maestro,
head is sewn to the carpet next to a transistor radio,
the toddler remembers louder days
He was a German Maestro/composer and his name was Carlos Kleiber,
today he sleeps in a quiet memorial room, in beautiful Slovania.
In the silent hall, the maestro tall and regal takes his place,
His presence commanding, with elegance and grace.
With a wave of his baton, the music starts to flow,
Filling the air with melodies that ebb and glow.
His baton dances, coaxing magic from the air,
Creating a symphony beyond compare.
Each movement, each gesture, a masterful art,
Guiding the orchestra with passion in his heart.
In his hands, the music speaks without a word,
The maestro, a master of the symphonic world.
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